


The werewolf and the sleuth

by Hotaru_Tomoe



Series: The English job [40]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Rough Sex, Stubborn John, Werewolf John, Werewolf Moran, a bit of blood play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 15:45:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16478369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hotaru_Tomoe/pseuds/Hotaru_Tomoe
Summary: After Sherlock has discovered John's secret, life starts to flow as usual, but when October approaches again, Sherlock and John fight over how to handle John's lycanthropy.





	The werewolf and the sleuth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Auspiciousnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auspiciousnight/gifts).



> This is the sequel of the [previous story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8411587) of the series, so probably it doesn't makes a lick of sense as a stand alone.  
> In a comment to the first story, Auspiciousnight suggested a Werewolf!Moran, and here we are. I'm sorry that it took me so long, hope you like it anyway!

Sherlock tapped the pencil on the notebook for over an hour, and finally John snapped.

"What's up?"

"I'm thinking."

"Usually you're quieter. Can we go back to that mode?"

"I thought that after the transformation your irritability would disappear, but apparently it's an intrinsic trait of your personality."

"Ohi!"

"Exactly."

John snorted, but didn’t know how to reply. Sherlock wasn’t exactly wrong.

"Your previous relationships were short lived because of your condition," the sleuth observed, joining his hands in front of his face: after the discovery, he was reevaluating and reorganizing the data he had on John.

John shrugged: "Well, in the long run it's hard to hide, and you really need a special person to accept it."

"I accepted it."

"You are you."

Sherlock answered with a flattered smile, but he had some more questions.

"Shortly after the beginning of our cohabitation, while we were following a case, we climber over a railing. Do you remember?"

"Absolutely not!” John laughed, “it's been years."

"I climbed easily, and you were clumsy. But you were pretending, weren’t you?"

"Partly: in human form, I'm not as strong as the werewolf, but I hold back and fake to be less than I really am. The werewolf curse has been running in the Watson family for generations, and we have learned some tricks to go unnoticed in the eyes of the rest of the world. One of these consists in pretending to be ordinary people, without particular qualities, neither intellectual or athletic."

"I don’t care about the rest of the world: you lied to me and I didn’t realize it."

"If you want, I can apologize... Sherlock, what are you doing?" John gasped, seeing that Sherlock had slipped from his chair, kneeling in the space between his legs.

"You managed to hide your secret for so long..." Sherlock whispered, unbuttoning his pants.

"And... that turns you on?"

 _"Yes, it definitely excites him,"_ John thought, when Sherlock licked him over his underwear.

"I should have known it right away," Sherlock murmured in a feverish voice, "when you killed Jeff Hope: the accuracy of that shot wasn’t human."

"Uh... thank you... I think," John answered, but he tried to stop him one last time, “can’t you wait? It's almost lunch time."

"I know, in fact I'm very hungry."

"Oh, if you put it that way..." John lifted his hips to let Sherlock lower his trousers.

Sherlock was coming to terms with the idea that John was a werewolf, and John had to come to terms with the idea that Sherlock, the object of his lust and countless night fantasies, desired him so eagerly and fearlessly.

It was a powerful thought, almost as powerful as the sight of Sherlock's lips stretched around his glans.

Sherlock touched his fraenulum with the tip of his tongue, and John arched his back with a groan. A hand ran to the curly head to grab and push it down, but at last moment John clenched it into a fist and restrained himself.

Although John hadn’t hurt him, when they had sex in the cabin in the woods, Sherlock had bruises for days.

John didn’t know yet where the line was, and a remote corner of his mind was always afraid of going too far and hurt him.

However, Sherlock grabbed his hand and put it in his hair with a groan, annoyed by his useless hesitation.

A powerful thought, indeed.

 

*

 

"Sherlock, no."

"But John..."

"No buts: the laptop stays out of the bedroom," John said, glaring malevolently at the empty spreadsheet on the screen.

"And what about my experiment? I want to test your stamina."

"For your information, the idea of having sex to collect data is not very exciting."

"I'm always collecting data."

Sherlock sat on the bed, legs and arms crossed, and the most outraged expression on his face.

John snorted a laugh: only Sherlock could look so prim while he was completely naked and still partially erect.

"Why don’t we conduct the same experiment, but on my terms?"

"I’m listening."

John pushed him onto the mattress and climbed astride him.

"I can show you my stamina by fucking you all night, until you don’t remember what your name is. What do you say?"

Sherlock's pupils dilated instantly like the ones of a cat, and John took it as a yes.

 

The gentle trickle of the water leaking from the tap into the bathtub filled with hot water, had made both of them relaxed, almost lethargic.

John lifted a hand, finding his fingers completely wrinkled, and shook Sherlock, who was leaning against his chest.

"Mrgh," the sleuth replied, annoyed.

"We have to get out of here."

"You do it. I can’t, I don’t even remember my name."

"The experiment was a success, then," John laughed, kissing his hair.

He got up, dried both of them, lifted Sherlock and carried him into the bedroom.

The possessive wolf inside him growled with joy.

 

*

 

Obviously John was on cloud nine because Sherlock had accepted his werewolf nature with the utmost naturalness, as if John had simply changed his hairstyle, and he was happy to have a long-term relationship, which he never thought he could have because of his condition. Besides, the cases were always exciting and gave him the adrenaline he needed, and sex with Sherlock had been a fantastic surprise.

Sherlock had also conducted tests on his blood, to study and understand his hereditary lycanthropy. John had studied it all his life without achieving any results, and had no hope that Sherlock would do better than him (in fact he couldn’t), but it was great to be able to talk freely about his condition with another scientist.

However, having a relationship with Sherlock wasn’t all rosy, and there were negative aspects, first of all the fact that Sherlock was literally obsessed by the werewolf side of John.

And while John understood his curiosity about a phenomenon that was actually strange and inexplicable, sometimes he feared that he was a guinea pig in one of Sherlock’s experiment, and that Sherlock was only interested in the beast.

It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

 

*

 

It was October again, and the reawakening of the beast was approaching, John could feel it: his night vision improved to the point of allowing him to wander around the apartment without turning on the lights, smells and flavours had become more intense, unusual noises alarmed him, and the slightest annoyance made him mad.

Rationally, John knew that it was fault of the change taking place inside his body, and tried to repress himself as much as possible, but, living with Sherlock, it wasn’t so easy.

In the last days Sherlock, usually as agile as a cat, had stumbled over the coffee table, dropped the music stand and broke two teacups; he had started cooking, adding to the food all sorts of spicy flavours; finally, due to an alleged backache, forced John to carry heavy boxes of books in his old bedroom upstairs.

John wasn’t stupid, he knew very well what Sherlock was doing: he was testing the werewolf, he was prodding him to see how he reacted, regardless of the fact that it was dangerous, for himself and also for John.

But he had to understand that it wasn’t a game.

So, when Sherlock came back home that afternoon, John barely gave him time to open his mouth.

"John, could you…?"

"No!" He interrupted, shouting.

Sherlock frowned, puzzled by his reaction: "You don’t even know what I want to ask you."

"I don’t care. This experiment ends here: I will not come to the park with you, to bring back the stick that you throw me."

Sherlock pressed his lips in a thin, white line.

"That was never my intention," he murmured. "How could you think so?"

Sherlock looked offended.

Sherlock.

Sometimes he was really incredible, John thought.

"Don’t play dumb with me: do you want me to believe that your behaviour in the last period has nothing to do with my lycanthropy?"

"Well yes, of course, but it's your fault!" Sherlock snapped, and John looked at him in disbelief.

"Beg your pardon?"

"If you weren’t always so stubbornly committed to repress yourself, I wouldn’t have had to resort to this. I just wanted to show you the advantages of your condition: you have special abilities and you should exploit them."

"Oh, I'm so sorry if I try to keep you safe from a werewolf. And no, you're wrong: there's no advantage in what happens to me. It’s a fucking curse!"

"That's because you've never tried to control it, you just pretended it doesn’t exist."

John pointed a finger at him: "You don’t have the slightest idea what it means to deal with the beast, but I have lived with it all my life, so I will continue to do as I have always done so far."

"You're the one who's wrong."

John shook his head: "Oh, of course... _I'm Sherlock Holmes and nobody is more clever than me_. Go to hell!" He concluded with a growl.

"It’s not like that."

"Listen,” John sighed, tired of that exhausting conversation, “do you want the last word at all costs? Take it."

"I insist because I'm right. I know you better than yourself, proof is the fact that you continue to refer to yourself and the werewolf as two separate entities."

"I'm not that beast!" John cried, vibrating with indignation, but Sherlock wasn’t impressed, and just sighed.

"See, this is what I mean: you continue to think in terms of _"you"_ and _"him"_ , when the lycanthropy is a part of you, it’s engraved in your blood and in your DNA, as the colour of the your eyes or the shape of your face. No matter how much effort you put into it, you can’t get rid of it, we have scientifically proven it. But fighting this side of you, and pretending that it doesn’t exist is wrong! Why don’t you try to exploit it and control it? If you come to tame that part of you, you will not be afraid of it anymore."

"That's a monster," John growled. "You can’t blame me if I want it to disappear."

"You're not the only one who has to deal with demons, you know. Where do you think I would be now, if I kept on pretending not to have a problem with drugs, instead of taking care of it?"

"It's not the same thing!" John snapped, pushing Sherlock aside to leave the house.

He needed to walk and be alone, to soothe the anger caused by that absurd conversation.

"You know I'm right."

Sherlock's words pursued him along the stairs.

 _"No, you’re not,"_ John told himself as he walked along the streets, dodging passers-by.

Thinking of controlling the werewolf, living with it, and even exploiting its abilities... he shook his head: only Sherlock could have such a idiotic idea. John had used his repressive method all his life and he had done well, he wouldn’t change it because Sherlock wanted to experiment.

 _"And your method worked so well, didn’t it, John?”_ suggested an annoying little voice in his head, _“No real friend before Sherlock, the month of October constantly lived in terror, a week hidden in the heart of the bush like a criminal. Wonderful, right?"_

John stopped in front of a window of a store on Regent Street, looking at his reflection on the glass; Sherlock was right about one thing: he was terrified of the beast, but he had his own good reasons. The werewolf was uncontainable, and he didn’t have enough self confidence to think he could control it.

Suddenly, among the thousand smells of people walking fast behind him, one in particular hit John’s nostrils, alerting his senses: he had already smelled it, years before. Even if he couldn’t remember when and where, the instinctive part of his brain immediately associated that smell with danger.

He whirled around, trying to find the source of the smell, but there were hundreds of people around him, and he couldn’t follow the trail, nor did he recognize any familiar face between the passers-by.

_"Because, as Sherlock says, you never allowed yourself to exploit and train your special abilities."_

"Fuck!" John growled between his teeth, and began to walk, trying to forget the episode: perhaps it was a criminal that he and Sherlock had had arrested during an investigation, and that had been released.

 

In the following days, the mood at home remained tense: Sherlock stopped experimenting and didn’t talk about the werewolf anymore, but John felt that the chapter wasn’t closed, and that his lover disapproved of his decision.

Not a good perspective, with the end of October and his transformation approaching.

John only hoped to leave everything behind.

_"So you'll pretend nothing happens, like every year."_

 

*

 

"I think I'll leave tomorrow or the day after tomorrow," John announced a couple of days later.

"You want to go to your family's cabin again, even this year," Sherlock said, and his voice had an undeniable accusatory tone.

"Did you think I was going to be a werewolf here, in the middle of London? I’ve already told you, it's too dangerous. Why don’t you try to be reasonable once in a while?"

Sherlock didn’t say a word, got up, and put on his coat.

"Oh, great!" John snapped. "Nice way to carry on an adult conversation."

"There's nothing to discuss, since you don’t even want to try a different way."

Sherlock didn’t wait for John's answer, and left.

He sent a message to Molly, telling her that he would go to Barts, to experiment with some corpse, believing that this would help him get rid of the irritation.

Passing by an alley, he heard a sound of broken glass, followed by a faint whine of pain: probably a stray dog was hurt by rummaging in the trash.

He didn’t think about it much: he entered the alley and knelt by the rubbish bins, located in a very dark corner.

"Where are you? Come here, I don’t want to hurt you."

"But I want to," said a snarling, almost non-human voice behind him.

Sherlock whirled around, but had only time to see a huge werewolf, before being sent to slam against the wall by a powerful blow, and lose consciousness.

 

When he recovered, the first thing he perceived was a damp chillness, followed by a disgusting smell of excrements and decomposition, and the sound of running water: he was in the sewers.

He tried to move imperceptibly, but he was tied tightly to the chair where he sat.

"Stop pretending to sleep: I heard your heartbeat speed up, you're awake."

Sherlock opened his eyes and found himself facing an imposing man.

He recognized him instantly.

"Sebastian Moran."

Sherlock had only seen Moran in photography, years before: he was Moriarty's alleged right-hand man, but he had disappeared completely from the radars, so much so that he and Mycroft thought that he was dead, or that he had changed his identity, withdrawing from the criminal world to avoid to end his days in prison.

Now he realized that it had been a wrong deduction: the man in front of him was a military strategist, who had waited patiently, without being noticed, elaborating a meticulous plan for a surprise attack.

He also deduced that Moran was driven by a strong personal motivation, or he wouldn’t have kidnapped a Holmes, knowing what consequences he would face, if Mycroft’s men had captured him.

Revenge. Moran wanted revenge.

But bad news didn’t end there: besides being a dangerous mercenary, Moran was also a werewolf. He was the one who had attacked him in that alley: even if deformed, his somatic features were unmistakable.

"Deduce me as long as you want, it will not change your fate, or that of Watson," Moran said with absolute calm voice, knowing he had already won.

Sherlock gave a useless tug at the ropes that kept him tied: "Leave John out of this, he has nothing to do with it, he has never been involved in my plan to defeat Moriarty."

"Jim was right: you are very fond of your pet, and you would do anything to save him."

Sherlock was struck by a revelation: it wasn’t Moriarty who invented that term, pet, for John. It was Moran.

Because he knew.

"You knew from the beginning that John was a werewolf, too."

"Yes: even when we aren’t transformed, we have a peculiar smell, different from that of other human beings. When I took Watson to the pool, I immediately realized that."

Sherlock frowned: John had never mentioned this, even after he had discovered his secret.

"No, unlike me, that idiot Watson didn’t understand that I am a werewolf, at the pool: he never tried to exploit the gift we have, unlike what Jim taught me to do. And that's why Watson will not find you, until it's too late."

Sherlock hated to admit it, but Moran was quite right: he had a huge advantage, having sharpened his special abilities over the years, while John had done nothing but ignore them.

"What do you want to do?"

"To Watson? Nothing, he will only have to recognize your corpse torn by the bites of the werewolf, if he could."

"It isn’t a very elegant way of killing me."

"I know: Jim would complain about the blood that splashes everywhere, because it attracts flies and ants, and it’s damn difficult to remove from the elegant suits. But he's not here anymore, because of you,” he added after a pause, walking menacingly towards Sherlock, “so I'll devour you, and John Watson will suffer my same pain."

It was almost impossible for a werewolf to find someone who accepted them, and it wasn’t difficult to deduce that Moriarty and Moran had been united by a twisted form of love. They were two criminals, but they were perfect for each other, and the loss of Moriarty had instilled in Moran an irrepressible desire for revenge.

Somehow Sherlock could understand that.

When Moran was in front of him, Sherlock noticed that his canines had become more pointed and his nails had considerably lengthened.

"Yes, it’s happening," Moran said. "I can control my lycanthropy all year round and decide when to transform, except for the last week of October. That's all for the beast."

Moran ran a hand over Sherlock's neck, holding him tightly, threatening him without words, then brushed his face into the pantomime of a caress, and finally slapped him so hard that he cut his lower lip.

"Usually I prefer my meals more fleshy, but you'll be fine."

 

When the phone rang, John hoped it was Sherlock, calling to apologize. And if he didn’t want to apologize, John would have done it: he wasn’t fully right in their argument, and he was tired of fighting with his lover.

But it wasn’t Sherlock, it was Molly.

"Hi Molly, what can I do for you?"

"Hi John, do you know where Sherlock is?"

"No, we... we had a little fight and he left a couple of hours ago. Do you need something from him?"

"No, uhm… actually he sent me a message saying he would be here in the morgue, but he didn’t show up, it’s strange that he gives up fresh bodies. But if you had a fight, maybe he's somewhere, pouting," she laughed nervously.

"Yeah, you're probably right," John answered, but suddenly he felt anxious and called Sherlock several times, but he didn’t pick up.

The morgue was the compromise they had reached for when Sherlock was nervous. Instead of smoking, or worst, he would go to Molly to experiment, and he was even allowed to take pieces of corpses home.

And no matter how bad their discussions had been lately, John didn’t believe Sherlock would break the deal.

If he hadn’t reached Barts, something had happened to him.

 _"You're nervous about the whole situation, and because you’ll transform soon: it's the beast that talks,"_ he told himself.

But Sherlock was nowhere to be found and didn’t answer to his messages, so, for once, John decided to indulge his instinct.

Through an app, he located Sherlock's phone and ran there; when he saw that it was a dark alley with no exit, his concern shot up.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you here?"

He called him again, and Sherlock's phone rang nearby. It was on the ground, the glass smashed, but there was no trace of the detective.

"Where are you, where are you, where are you?" John murmured, kneeling on the ground, looking for other tracks.

A smell struck his nostrils, the same he sniffed a few days earlier in Regent Street, but more intense this time, more wild, almost animalistic; around the cover of a manhole there was a tuft of hair, and it belonged to a werewolf.

John blew a blasphemy between clenched teeth, brought the hair close to his nose and took a deep breath, expanding his senses: yes, it was the same smell he had smelled years ago, when...

From his memory resurfaced the smell of chlorine and the noise of a water pump.

The pool!

He was one of Moriarty's men that brought him in the pool, and he was a werewolf, like himself.

At the time, John had been too distracted by the semtex vest to notice it, but his brain had recorded and stored the information.

However, now he had another problem: a werewolf had kidnapped Sherlock, dragging him into the sewers of the city, a labyrinth where John would never find him.

Not in human form, at least.

But for that part of him that he had always hated, denied and ignored, it wouldn’t have been a problem; now the werewolf could be the only hope of salvation for the man he loved.

"You always have to be right, don’t you, Sherlock?" John sighed bitterly, then he concentrated: his transformation was coming anyway, bringing out the werewolf wouldn’t be difficult.

"I need you," John admitted, "and he too. I can’t… we can’t lose him, you understand it, right?"

A few seconds later, two large paws grabbed the manhole and threw it away.

 

Sherlock hadn’t even tried to free himself from the ropes that imprisoned him: Moran, sitting in the opposite corner of the room, didn’t lose sight of him, and when he got up again, Sherlock realized that his time had come.

_"Forgive me John, I've run out of miracles."_

He closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable, but after a few moments he opened them again: Moran had stopped halfway and was sniffing the air.

"Your pet is less incompetent than I thought. Well, it doesn’t matter: it means that you will both die here."

Moran bared his teeth in a growl, bent his back and, like in the old Hulk tv show, his clothes tore, unable to contain the beast. A moment later, the huge werewolf howled menacingly.

Sherlock started: how did John find them? He had lost his phone and wasn’t wearing any GPS device, it was impossible to find them in the labyrinth of the London sewers.

_"For a human, but not for a werewolf."_

An imperceptible smile stretched his lips: the circumstances were less than ideal, but finally John had understood that he could exploit that side of himself.

Moran growled again, looking from one side of the tunnel to the other.

"No matter how strong you are, you can’t stop the bullets," Sherlock said.

He didn’t know if Moran could understand him in this form, but if he convinced him that John couldn’t control the transformation and was still human, he could offer him a microscopic advantage.

Something came floating on the water of the channel, and Moran threw himself on it without hesitation, but it was just John's jacket.

Confused, Moran raised his nose; in that instant John emerged from the putrid water and hurled himself at the other werewolf.

It was hard to see anything in the foaming and splashing water, as the two werewolves struggled to bite at their throats. Every now and then emerged jaws, sharp claws, a curved back, a paw attacking, and the air was full of savage growls.

It was a terrifying sight that would have paralyzed anyone, but not Sherlock, who wriggled in his chair, trying to push it backwards, to fall and break it, but Moran had tied him too tightly and his efforts were in vain.

"John!" He cried, completely useless, because his words wouldn’t help him in any way, but it was the only thing he could do.

The water had turned red because of the wounds, and it was impossible to understand which of the two werewolves was winning; John overthrew Moran under him with a karate move, and they disappeared under the water.

"John!” Sherlock screamed again, terrified when the water became still. “Come on, John..."

A werewolf's paw rested on the edge of the channel, and a beast hoisted upright, shaking off the water: his fur was a charming combination of silver, blond, and brown.

"John! Are you hurt? Are you okay? Is Moran dead? See? I was right when I told you..."

The werewolf interrupted him with an exasperated growl that seemed to say, "Give me a break!"

"Okay, you’re right. But please, let’s go home, I have to take a shower. And you too," he added, wrinkling his nose. The smell of wet werewolf wasn’t pleasant.

With his razor sharp claws, John ripped the ropes that blocked Sherlock, then he put him on his shoulder.

"Again?” Sherlock protested, “we have to edit your way of carrying me!"

Night had fallen, and the werewolf leaped from roof to roof to Baker Street, without being seen by anyone.

John threw Sherlock onto the bed of his old room, then walked restlessly around the room, still adrenaline-doped by the fight with his rival; then, after a while, he crouched in a corner and slowly resumed his human form.

Sherlock approached him and inspected Moran's wounds: they were healing quickly and were almost superficial, thanks to the exceptional metabolism of the werewolf, but because they had both been in an unhygienic environment, he insisted on disinfecting them and taking a shower.

John nodded, but said nothing. He just followed Sherlock down the stairs and into the bathroom, and let himself been washed and tended without protesting, listening to Sherlock’s deductions about Moran and Moriarty.

"Under normal circumstances, I should warn Mycroft that the 'Moran' dossier is permanently archived, but my brother could understand something about werewolves and…” he stopped, since John wasn’t really listening him. “What's wrong?” he asked.

John clenched his fists.

"I'm furious."

"It's understandable: you had a bad day."

"No!” John hissed, “I’m furious with myself, because you were right."

"Don’t do it: you would live in a state of constant frustration for the rest of your life: I'm always right."

Normally Sherlock's jokes lightened the tension, but this time John's gaze remained grim.

"I didn’t want to understand that my werewolf senses could save your life, one time or another, and today you almost got killed," he whispered.

"It didn’t happen."

"But it could..."

"It didn’t happen," Sherlock repeated firmly, ”and now you've realized that you must not fight your werewolf nature, but control it. But that's not all," he added, noting that John's tension hadn’t dissipated.

"No: I'm furious with Moran because he touched you; you still have his scent on you, despite the shower."

"Then erase it," Sherlock said simply, dropping the towel he wore around his waist.

John walked toward him, no less predatory than his feral counterpart, and grabbed him by the hips.

"He touched you. He shouldn’t had."

"No."

"You are mine."

"Yes, John."

"You want me."

"Only you."

"Prove it," John blew on his lips.

John was burning with senseless jealousy and possessiveness, but Sherlock was more than willing to encourage him, because John’s mental barriers were failing and he was reconciling with that part of himself that he had always stubbornly concealed.

He also had a secret predilection for the instinctive and wild side of John, when it came to sex.

He opened the bathroom cabinet, took the lube, leaned forward slightly and began to prepare; in the mirror he could see John follow his every move with hungry eyes.

John he clenched and opened his fists, and bite his lips until they bled, then touched himself, lubricating himself with his secretions.

"That's enough, come here," he ordered, and Sherlock obeyed, compliant, but just as excited as John was.

John lifted him easily, Sherlock hooked up his legs around his waist, then slowly lowered himself on John’s throbbing erection.

"You're close to your transformation, it's bigger than usual,” Sherlock gasped, as he stroked John’s arms, “and you're stronger."

But John wasn’t interested in conversation, he just wanted to erase the last traces of Moran's smell from the skin of the man who belonged to him. His animal side still shouted _'mine, mine, mine'_ , but was calmed by the warmth of Sherlock's body around him.

John licked Sherlock’s neck, rubbed his cheek against his soft skin and kissed him, infusing in the kiss all the desire he had for him; the cut on Sherlock's lips, still fresh, opened again, and his blood mingled with John's, a taste that lingered on his mouth and in his brain, indelible, their taste, only their, and no one else's.

Satisfied with having eliminated the smell of Moran, John walked to the bedroom, supporting Sherlock with ease.

"God!" Sherlock moaned, shivering: the sensation of John’s cock moving inside him was incredible.

John sat on the bed, Sherlock astride him, and began a meticulous exploration of his chest: he wanted to taste every inch of that soft and slightly sweaty skin, so sweet under his tongue.

Sherlock moved impatiently, yearning for John's thrusts, but the former soldier locked his wrists behind his back with one hand and kept him impaled on his cock, helpless, at the mercy of his whims.

Sherlock squeezed harder around his erection whenever John hinted a bite on his chest or neck, or when he tugged his hair, and his moans filled the air.

The viscous humidity between their stomachs told John that Sherlock was already close, and he grunted with pleasure.

They both knew that Sherlock liked rough sex, but while during the rest of the year John never took advantage of it, now he let himself go completely.

Finally he pushed inside him with harsh, rough thrusts, tightening his fist around Sherlock’s erection.

Sherlock's eyes widened and his whole body shuddered at the sudden change of pace.

"That’s what you want, isn’t it?" John panted.

Sherlock nodded frantically. "I'm close... oh, John..."

"Come, then," John growled, slipping his hand on his swollen, full balls, as he kept on pushing himself inside Sherlock, “but I will not stop fucking you until I come too. Do you imagine, Sherlock? The burning of your body that can’t take it anymore, the agony..."

Sherlock collapsed on him and screamed, wetting John's abdomen with his semen, the orgasm that seemed to never end and burned his nerves, leaving him exhausted.

"I warned you," John said, his voice incredibly deep, as he licked his hand.

"I know," Sherlock answered with a faint smile, letting himself fall across the mattress on his stomach, offering himself completely to John.

John didn’t hesitate, drunk of testosterone and intoxicated by the smell and taste of Sherlock; he spread his legs and lay down on him, blocking him on the mattress with all the weight and penetrated him again, pushing hard enough to send the big bed against slamming the wall, again and again.

"Jo... John..." Sherlock gasped. He was still dazed by the orgasm, and now the pain was merging with pleasure, but it was exactly what he wanted: John showing him his most intimate and true nature.

“Sher…”

John's fingers gripped the fabric of the sheets so tightly to tear it, and when he came, his cry of pleasure was more like a howl. He lay on Sherlock, breathing on his neck and kissing him languidly, until he shivered, because of the sweat that dried on his skin.

"It's cold. Come on, get up."

Sherlock smiled: John was always the good doctor.

“Hey, I said get up.” John lifted one of Sherlock’s arm, but he let it fall back on the mattress.

"I don’t have the strength," he protested.

"You can’t stay like that all night long."

"I don’t see why not."

"Okay, okay, I understand: I'll take care of it."

John had to struggle hard to raise Sherlock and push him under the covers; then he lay down next to him and ran a hand over his chest, cataloging every scratch, bite and bruise.

"Have I been too…?" John began, ready to apologize.

"Perfect,” Sherlock interrupted him with a yawn, “exactly like I want you."

"I…"

"Stay here this year, don’t go to your cabin. I'm tired of discussing this."

"Aren’t you scared?" John asked. He didn’t clarify whether he was referring to the rough sex, or to the ferocity that the werewolf had shown during the fight against Moran, or to the cohabitation with the beast for a week in their home. He needed a total response.

"No," Sherlock said, without hesitation.

"Why aren’t you scared?"

"Because you are always you, in whatever form you are."

Not a man, not a werewolf, but both. And always John.

"Okay... okay..." John agreed, stroking his hair, and the werewolf inside him quieted, knowing that he wouldn’t be separated from the man he owned.

It was still crazy, but they were crazy, so maybe Sherlock was right: it could work.

 

*

 

A few days later, Sherlock came home with a considerable amount of raw meat, and he was stopped by Mrs. Hudson on the landing.

"Dear, it's been a few days since I've seen John. Is everything alright?"

"Well, he has a bad ‘flu that has made him more grumpy than usual: better not to disturb him until he heals."

"Heavens! Does he need something?"

"No, and I ask you not to come into our flat: it's a very contagious virus and I think I got it too."

"It seems to me that you're fine."

"I took it lightly."

"If you say so… give John my best wishes for a speedy recovery."

"Sure. Good day, Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock went into their bedroom, and the werewolf growled when he saw him, to make him understand that he heard Sherlock call him grumpy and he didn’t like it.

Sherlock took off his shoes, put the grocery on the ground and lay down on the bed, resting his head on the thick fur.

"Oh, shut up! You know I'm right."


End file.
